


Burn Out the Night

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Ragnarok, Rimming, Sex Magic, Sexual Rituals Related To Monarchy, Talked to Orgasm, Top Loki (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 18:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14314671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: Cut off from the power of Asgard, Thor finds the old rituals are more important than ever. But things are tricky when it comes to Eldramessa, the fertility festival.





	Burn Out the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> I didn't MEAN for this to be 8k words. They just...wouldn't stop talking!

There were things one forgot, being so long away from home.

Not _entirely_ forgotten. Thor had often spared a moment over the past few years to think that, were he in Asgard, it would probably be time to begin preparations for this festival or that one; or had a sudden flash of nostalgia for the smell of the copper trees, or the taste of Rømmegrøt (they had a version on Midgard, but with different local spices, it just wasn’t the flavor of home). But just as often the days and ways of Asgard had passed unmarked, while he pursued a hunch throughout the cosmos.

In some ways it was proving difficult to get back into the habit.

In the early days of their exodus Thor—on helpful advice from Heimdall—had established timekeepers, men and women whose job it was to mark the days when there was no sunrise and sunset. He should not have been surprised when the calendars they produced included holidays, festivals, observances of various kinds. He was happy for it, of course; the people needed nothing more desperately than normalcy and routine and a bit of cheer in these challenging times.

There was also the very real benefit to his own power. Cut off from Asgard—what had been Asgard, metaphysical notions aside—he had soon realized that his strength was not limitless. Yes, Asgard was a people now, but without the weight of generations pressed down into the soil, he could not tap into it so easily. The rituals of old focused that strength, directed it into the channels where it could be shaped and used; for example, Thor found that his lightning was far easier to control once the spring melt festival had come and gone, despite the lack of seasonal thaw or any other sort of weather in space. So he was certainly in favor of the observances.

But it had been...some time since he’d been observant himself. It was easy enough to participate in the decorating, and the modest feasting. He could make a rousing speech with the best of them, especially if Loki was in a good mood and could be flattered round to writing the words for him. He could even dance a little, enough not to shame himself. 

Few festivals required more than that, so he really hadn’t spared much thought for Eldramessa. 

The timekeepers said it was dropping down into winter, however artificial that classification; at their suggestion, he had authorized the shortening of the false-lit days and the slight adjustment of temperature in the public areas of the ship to help people feel the change. Beyond that, his concerns were more with the day-to-day of finding places to stop and resupply, of managing disputes between his people, of wheedling Loki into being more helpful than troublesome. It wasn’t until one of his newly appointed advisors, Birla, asked his opinion on the arrangements for his own celebration that he recalled it was drawing near.

“People have been making false hearths with colored paper, or fabric, if they have it. We have a bit of velvet left from one of your old cloaks—shall I have the seamstresses make your fire with it, or did you want something more rustic?”

Thor blinked at her. “Don’t trouble them, I don’t need a hearth.”

She made a quiet, amused huff. “Trouble them? They’ll be fighting for the privilege, my King. And if you’re not very specific in your directions, it’s likely to end up a masterpiece of embroidery too. But if you’d prefer to make a paper one along with your subjects, it would earn a lot of goodwill.”

“No, I meant—I don’t need a hearth at all. I’ll leave the ritual to the young people—they’ve well earned it.”

There was a sudden, listening silence, in which several heads turned his direction. Birla’s expression didn’t change, still written over with wry and patient amusement. “Ah, yes, my King, you are so very ancient. However, it’s rather important to your people, so we’ll forgive your doddering old age this once and allow you participate anyway. So, paper hearth or velvet?”

The tradition was old, a fertility festival from a time when the center of every Asgardian household was the kitchen fire: a mere cookpit in the poorest, to great stone ovens in the wealthiest. Symbolically it was to keep winter from taking hold forever—courting couples, or even just temporary flings, were given privacy and pride of place by the fire for one night, that they might sow the metaphorical seeds that eventually brought around new birth and loosened winter’s hold on the world. From a practical standpoint, it was more about keeping the people—most especially, the ones who were young and full of hormones—from going stir-crazy during the snowy season.

Of course, in modern times it might feel a bit silly to mess around in front of the stove or fireplace once the rest of the household had gone to bed (and after the extended round of winks, nudges, dirty jokes, and knowing sniggers). But tradition tended to outweigh self-consciousness, and turn the silliest of rituals into something meaningful and important.

One of the the unlikely things Thor was beginning to learn about kingship was that it involved a lot of giving in to other people’s decisions. “Paper, I suppose.” It wasn’t as if he actually had to do the rites, after all. He could put up a hearth if it made everyone happy. Birla nodded encouragingly at him, like a tutor when her student has finally come upon the correct answer, and he decided not to share that thought with her just at present.

~

It was a surprisingly enjoyable choice. Someone had managed to collect an impressive volume of paper together (Thor suspected it was packing material from the supplies they’d traded for at their last refueling stop), and dye it in shades of red, orange, and yellow. There were small bowls of flour-paste and brushes cobbled together from yarn and the recycled handles of other objects. Someone had even found a bundle of branches, perhaps also brought on from one of their planetary stops, to make the logs for the fires. Thor was having a great deal of fun playfully haggling over specific bits of paper, though the hearth he was constructing was far from a masterpiece.

“And what lucky lady will you be entertaining at your hearth, your Highness?” The young man grinning at him from across the table did not look at all like Fandral, but something in his tone reminded Thor of his friend nonetheless, the sudden spark of renewed grief catching him off-guard. 

“Or is it not a lady at all?” the man asked when Thor did not respond, his expression sliding sideways into something nearly hopeful.

Thor shook himself and tried to return to the cheer he’d been feeling a bare few moments before. “No, no, I’ll just be looking after things that night so others can have their fun. I’m just making one for tradition’s sake.”

It was _astounding_ how quickly such a noisy jumble of conversation could go quiet. That listening silence again! Thor wished he could get people to do that when he was getting ready to make a speech.

“You’re not...participating, your Highness?” someone ventured, before the quiet got too awkward.

He sensed—well, it didn’t take a genius—that some careful handling might be in order. He leaned in as if confiding a secret to the entire table. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we Asgardians are a very fine-looking people indeed. How would I ever choose just one to celebrate with?”

That seemed to appease them somewhat—who doesn’t love a compliment? An older lady to Thor’s left winked at him and said, “I’m sure no one would make you choose _just_ one, my King,” which set everyone else laughing.

They laughed more when Thor pointed to her in mock-scolding and said, “That’s not how the ritual works, Ulfrun, and you well know it.” Thor’s pronouncement was soon forgotten in the table-wide banter that followed, and he breathed a secret sigh of relief.

Of course, he should have guessed that would not be the end of the matter, especially not once his brother caught wind of it.

~

An emerald-eyed serpent was coiled on the captain’s chair, watching Thor as he approached. 

Thor folded his arms, stopping several feet short of what he knew Loki’s reach to be in his usual shape, and made an exasperated face at the creature. “Really? Even I know there are no snakes in space, brother.”

The scales shifted and flowed upwards, becoming leather and metal; Loki sprawled casually across the makeshift throne. “Call me sentimental. I thought you might need a little reminding of old times. I hear you’ve forgotten how to celebrate Eldramessa.”

Thor made an impatient gesture for him to vacate the chair, which Loki naturally ignored. Still, when he took two quick strides towards his brother, Loki suddenly found somewhere else to be—in much the same way as a cat who would like its owner to know that it _chose_ to relocate, for reasons of its own, that had nothing to do with the fact that it would have been forcibly moved otherwise.

Thor took the seat, leaning back in it and gazing out into the vast blackness beyond the window with a sigh. “Believe me, Birla isn’t about to let me forget.”

Loki grinned like a shark scenting blood in the water, alighting on the arm of the chair. “I don’t see why you’re so put out about it. As I recall, you always used to be so enthusiastic about this particular festival.”

Thor elbowed him, but did not manage to jostle him from his perch. “Yes, when I was younger. Things were different then.” At Loki’s skeptically amused expression, he went on, somewhat defensively. “Less responsibility, less to think about. It’s different, being king.”

“Ah,” said Loki sagely. “I didn’t realize all that responsibility was weighing on you below the belt as well as above it. Who knew kingship would so affect your performance?”

“ _Loki,_ ” Thor growled, shoving him off successfully this time. Loki, of course, caught himself gracefully and made it look as if he’d stood up on purpose, smiling the same smile as the emerald-eyed serpent.

“Well, I’m very sorry to have brought up a sore subject.” He glanced conspicuously downward, grinning wider still. “Or _not_ brought it up, as the case may be.” He dodged out of Thor’s reach before he could retaliate, laughing as he left him alone to sulk.

~

Loki was a problem in more ways than one, fitting to his nature.

Once, he had presented Thor with a different sort of challenge. Before all the betrayal and faked death and attempted planetary domination, before Thor had come to know his true nature—for good and for ill—there had been something else.

 _I love Thor more dearly than any of you_. Loki had said that once, or so Sif had told him, when he had been exiled to Midgard and his friends had set their minds to retrieve him. Of course, it was a preface to one of his manipulations, and nothing that should be trusted as truth, but…

There had been a time when Thor wondered.

They had been close—but not, he thinks, the kind of closeness he’s seen in other siblings. Things between them were always fraught, full of tension that Thor never quite felt clever enough to grasp the shape of. At times he hoped, desperately, that Loki’s strange hot-and-cold attentions were a sign that beneath the surface he was fighting the same fixations Thor himself struggled with. Other times, he was certain that Loki was only being Loki, and had no designs on him at all, and that he should be grateful that Loki would never give him the opportunity to make what was inarguably a terrible decision.

It all came down to Loki, either way. Thor knew that if Loki had ever intimated, had ever even _suggested_ that he felt anything beyond fraternal affection for Thor, that the decision would be made. However much he might struggle with the concept, if Loki had asked, he would have taken him up on the offer without a second’s hesitation.

Thor hadn’t thought about any of that in a very long time, now. He had mourned Loki in a variety of ways, seen the truth of him, and filed that particular puzzle away as a mystery never to be solved.

Only. Well. He’d seen more of his brother in the last few months than in the years that preceded them, and they had been on the same side for a longer stretch than any time since before Jotunheim. The ship put them in close quarters, and Loki put them in closer quarters still, turning up at every opportunity to needle Thor.

They’d touched more too, starting with a hug that Loki vociferously objected to without actually making any effort to escape. Loki liked to invade Thor’s space to continue his campaign of irritation, and Thor liked to express his affection with everyone through touch, so Loki being within arm’s reach so often had the inevitable outcome of more frequent touch (however vocally and ineffectually Loki protested).

And so, for Thor, the old difficulty was rearing its head again.

It didn’t help that Eldramessa was Loki’s new favorite topic to torment him about.

“You know,” he said idly at breakfast one morning, his voice quiet but pitched to carry in the communal mess, “I have a fair bit of healing knowledge. I could probably help you with your little Eldramessa problem.”

Thor had been thinking a little too hard about the lines of Loki’s long, fine-boned fingers; his mind immediately jumped to the wrong sort of _helping_ , and by the time he recovered himself, it was too late to shut Loki down without a fuss.

“You needn’t be embarrassed,” Loki went on, his eyes glittering. “It happens to many men, or so I understand.”

People were listening now—of course they were. Thor gave him a quelling glare.

“Stop it. You know very well that’s not the issue.”

Loki held up his palms, falsely conciliatory, his expression a mask of apologetic reassurance. “It’s not an official diagnosis, of course, I’m no medic. I’m just saying if you’d like me to try and mix up some sort of potion, I have a few thoughts on—”

“ _Loki_ ,” Thor growled, and his brother subsided, though he smiled so sweetly it must have made his teeth ache. Thor continued to watch him instead of his breakfast, waiting for whatever was coming next.

After a beat, Loki obliged, leaning confidingly towards Thor. Thor tried not to notice how close he was, how warm his breath against the shell of Thor’s ear. “What _is_ the issue, truly? Surely you’re not still mooning over your Midgardian. Didn’t you say it was a...what was it...” Loki trailed off in a pantomime of deep thought, “...a _mutual_ dumping?”

It was truly amazing, how few words Loki could use to achieve maximum irritation. “This has nothing to do with Jane,” Thor hissed back, and did not like at all the way Loki’s mouth curled up at the corners.

“In that case, I really don’t see the problem. The entire remaining unwed population of Asgard is at your disposal—I know you aren’t picky, brother, so I’m sure you can find _someone_ to suit your tastes among them.”

He probably would regret giving Loki a true answer, but on the other hand, he doubted Loki would leave him be until he came right out with it. “I’m their king now, Loki. It’s…” he gestured vaguely, trying to find the correct words. “It doesn’t seem right, asking someone, when I have that sort of power over them.”

Loki snorted. “Of course. I should have guessed. Dear noble Thor.” He tucked a hand delicately beneath his chin, sitting back with a distinct air of schadenfreude. “Because you had no power over them at _all_ when you were just the prince and heir apparent.”

“I was young and foolish then. I’m trying to do better.”

Loki rolled his eyes, but fondly. “Charming though that is, I suspect you’ll have to get over it eventually. I imagine your people will want an Asgardian queen.”

Thor pushed his plate away, exasperated with the whole line of conversation. “That’s different.”

“Is it? I suppose there is traditionally a bed involved in marriage, rather than a hearth rug.”

He’d had enough. “It’s different because your king says so. How’s that for an answer?”

“Hm. Weren’t you just telling me how much you had matured since taking the throne?” Loki couldn’t resist getting in the last word, but he didn’t try to stop Thor from leaving, or to continue the discussion. Thor would be grateful for small mercies.

~

“See if Flikkr is willing to take on apprentices. We could certainly use more people with medical capabilities. I expect you have some recommendations for him?”

“Yes, my King. I’ll speak with him.” Fastgeir made a note.

“Good. What else do we need to take care of this week?” Thor glanced around the table.

Loki cleared his throat.

Thor didn’t like the sound of that. Then again, Loki had been unusually silent until now, which Thor liked even less. Usually when Loki deigned to join them for these meetings (on some mysterious schedule of his own), he was overflowing with opinions. And given that clever tongue of his, he could persuade the assembled decision-makers of nearly anything he chose, so long as Thor did not step in and override the choice. It didn’t bode well for anyone that he’d waited so long to participate.

But nothing about Loki boded well for Thor. He’d been dressing differently lately, or at least wearing a different glamour: his clothing softer, looser, less leather and more cloth; his hair less ruthlessly slicked back. Loki never did anything without reason, so perhaps it was to make himself seem more approachable and less dangerous to the Asgardian populace who hadn’t quite forgotten his past sins; but all Thor could see was how soft, how appealing it made him look. And Loki had taken the chair directly across from Thor’s for this meeting, putting himself directly in his brother’s line of vision. Thor could barely look anywhere else; he’d been wrestling with himself all afternoon.

“About the upcoming holiday,” said Loki, and blithely ignored the emphatic _don’t you dare_ motions Thor was making at him from across the table. “His Highness expressed a very reasonable concern that seeking one of his subjects as an Eldramessa partner might put undue pressure on them, given his position.” There were a few raised eyebrows; Thor suppressed a sigh. Since the hearth-making incident, he’d managed to imply (without outright lying) that everything was taken care of and he _would_ be participating. After all, the nature of the festivities was by necessity private, so as long as he could keep it smoothed over until the day had passed, it did not need to be an issue of contention.

So much for that.

Loki smiled at him, and Thor wondered if it was normal to want to throttle someone and kiss them both. (Not at the same time. Well—maybe, but that was a thought to be entertained later, when he could be alone in his quarters.) “Allow me to offer a solution, my King. It would answer your concern, I imagine, if your partner was not of Asgardian birth, and did not consider themselves subject to your jurisdiction. And if that person was particularly powerful, or came from a royal line themselves, I expect that would put to bed any lingering doubts.”

Thor clenched his fists and tried not to tick off the boxes thinking of Loki (Loki, born of Jotun; Loki, powerful in his own right as a warrior and sorcerer; Loki, royal by both birth and adoption). Loki’s eyes locked with his, and it was clear he was enjoying his brother’s discomfort. Knowing Loki, it was likely as not that he intended for Thor to draw the wrong conclusion and be horrified. Thor wondered whether Loki would still speak so if he knew it was not revulsion that discomfited him.

After a sufficiently dramatic pause, Loki went on. “Happily, our friends from Sakaar are with us. Do you know, a surprising number of them are connected to noble or royal lines from their planets of origin? Quite odd for a random sample of unkilled gladiators from a planet of detritus, someone should do a study. I’ve made you a list.” He glanced down at the datapad in front of him, as if referring to that list, though Thor suspected it was for effect. “And of course, there are other sorts of power. The Kronan, for example—”

That could not be borne. “I am _not_ f—ah—celebrating Eldramessa with Korg,” Thor snapped.

Loki looked so amused that Thor cursed himself for rising to the bait. “There are plenty of other options. Even a Midgardian, which historically you have a fondness—”

“Wait, hold on,” said Bruce, who had developed a tendency to tune out anything that got too Asgardian in these meetings and therefore had probably gone back to his calculations the instant Loki had begun speaking. “Does he mean me? What even is this festival? Do you need a dance partner? Because I’m not really—”

“ _No_ ,” Thor said firmly, before Loki or anyone else could take it upon themselves to enlighten him. “No, Loki, I don’t need a list. Even if they’re not Asgardian, they’re still passengers on this ship, which is still under my leadership. Enough.” Not that he thought the matter was done—it was clear from her expression that Birla would have something to say to him later about it. But surely no one would thank him for letting this fraternal squabble drag out any longer, even those who did agree with Loki.

Loki had other plans, of course. “I’m sorry, brother, but I really must insist you make some kind of peace with it. Not just because it looks better for the King to participate—” he paused just long enough for several of the other Asgardians to nod in confirmation— “but for the _practical_ aspects.”

He seemed in earnest, though it was hard to believe of Loki. True or feigned, it was a good look on him. Thor let himself be drawn in. “What do you mean?”

“Festival rites have _power_ , Thor, surely you’ve noticed that.” Moving beyond _my King_ and _your Highness_ , it seemed. Thor knew he was being played to, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t susceptible. “Your strength is not limitless, without Asgard-that-was.”

“I _know_ that. I’ve been very observant this year! I don’t see why missing this one celebration out of an entire year of them will be so very disastrous.”

Loki shook his head. “Then let me tell you a story.” He met Thor’s eyes again, held his gaze. “There is a planet where habit becomes ritual, and ritual becomes tradition, until the careful ways that its inhabitants preserve the past create a literal fount of power that soaks down into the soil. Now, people are people everywhere, and they structure their rituals around the things you might expect—birth. Death. The seasons.” A little half-smile that does far more to Thor than it should. “Sex. It doesn’t so much matter in the beginning what they choose. What matters is the repetition, the carried-forward weight of memory. Once a tradition is started, it grows more powerful every time it is followed.”

He was telling the story for everyone’s benefit, probably, but his eyes were only on Thor.

“A planet can store a great deal of power, as I’m sure everyone can imagine. The people are strengthened by it. Another part of tradition holds that the ruling family of this planet are inextricably bound up with that power—and because tradition says it, it is true. They are expected to be the best, the strongest, unapproachable in their areas of skill—but fed by the planet, and weakened by being too long parted from it. They each have their dominions, but tradition has been grinding along for so long that they never have to worry about the particulars. The power is always there to draw on.” Loki had always been a spellbinding storyteller. Thor watched his hands sketch a kind of scene as he spoke, and could not shake a helpless, hopeless sort of hunger.

“What they do not need to know while sitting on such a deep store of power is that power is _specific_. A thunder god needs weather rituals. With apologies to your Midgardian’s delicate ears—” Bruce had probably tuned out again anyway, and Thor was too distracted to look— “a fertility god needs ritual sex. The people understand tradition, so when they are flung into exile, their planet destroyed, all the weight of stored power consumed in the conflagration, they know what to do to rebuild. But the gods that pick and choose which traditions can be laid aside? They become different, and lesser, than they were.”

It was a good speech. Persuasive. (Attractive.) Loki was not finished.

“This is how the story will go from here. The new King of this displaced people will find a partner he can bear. No, that isn’t good enough. A partner he can _delight_ in.” There was something vicious about the way the words left Loki’s lips, sparking heat beneath Thor’s skin. “He will adhere _strictly_ to the tradition of this ritual, or as strictly as he may given the circumstances. Are you taking notes?” He raised an eyebrow at Thor, and for just an instant, the smirk reappeared.

“I have an excellent memory.” Even to his own ears, the retort sounded more coy than defensive. He tried to rein in his tone, with limited success. “Go on.”

Loki addressed the rest of the room instead. “Forgive me, I am about to be more explicit than I might otherwise, since I find myself rather concerned that the King doesn’t know how to celebrate a perfectly simple festival.” Thor thought he was angling for an excuse to dismiss the rest of the room, that he might make Thor uncomfortable one-on-one, but of course Loki had grander plans. “Please feel free to interject if I leave out anything important.”

Thor should really head this off at the pass. However much Loki pretended this was a matter of general concern, it was probably transparently obvious to everyone that it was unnecessary, intended chiefly to embarrass Thor. And Thor letting it continue...well, he supposed from the outside it probably looked more like a stubborn refusal to concede defeat than an unseemly interest in what Loki had to say, but either way, it wasn’t a good look for a king.

He should stop it, but he wasn’t going to. Not with Loki’s eyes blazing into him.

“Charming though the makeshift hearths are, they aren’t ideal, which means you would do well to be as _traditional_ as possible elsewise. If it weren’t for the complications of potential royal bastards, I’d advise you to find a partner who is actually potentially fertile, but since that could be an issue—and you’re making finding a partner so difficult in the first place—I suppose it can be laid aside.” Loki made an idly dismissive gesture, a mere flick of his fingers, but somehow it caught Thor’s attention in a way he couldn’t drag his eyes from.

He’d noticed before, many times, how appealing Loki’s hands were. Loki wasn’t usually a person who talked with his hands. He tended to be more locked down in his expressions and gestures; maybe it was easier to lie that way. But he’d used them to punctuate parts of his story, and seemed likely to continue, dooming Thor to a level of distraction that was rather a problem.

(The only other time he gestured so freely was when he worked his seiðr, a sight Thor would never tire of. If he didn’t know better, he would think—but no, Loki hardly needed magic to enthrall him, if he were honest.)

“—though that shouldn’t be a hardship for you, given how little modesty you’ve ever shown.” 

Thor dragged his attention back to Loki’s words, trying to reassemble the sentences he’d missed. “What?”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Unclothed. Nude. How else shall I say it?” He pronounced each word slowly, and Thor could feel them sparking down his spine to pool hot in his core, as if Loki had a direct line to his nervous system. “You. Will. Need. To. Take. Everything. _Off_. Clear enough?”

Thor nodded, his mouth dry. He would have to check on the climate control—it was far too warm in this part of the ship. 

Loki went on, still lingering over each word, as if he doubted Thor’s ability to grasp any of them. “Penetration is necessary, of course.” A slight glint in his eye. “Though it does not particularly matter which end of it you choose to be on, since we’ve already discarded the necessity of conception.”

Thor tried to be subtle as he shifted in his seat. He should not be this affected, simply listening to Loki talk. Even if the subject was a provocative one. “Of course. Yes. What else?”

Loki eyed him for a moment, apparently unsatisfied that he had fully grasped the previous lesson. He lifted a finger, both staying Thor’s question and indicating a point to be made. “Oral penetration does not count, for the purposes of the ritual. In the particulars, it needs to follow the motions of procreative sex as closely as possible, regardless of whether procreation is actually possible. Do you understand that?”

At least Thor’s groan of frustration was an appropriate response, even if it was more in reaction to Loki speaking so explicitly in such an unaffected tone. “ _Yes_ , I understand it. I am not a complete idiot, much though you wish to think me one.” He shouldn’t ask—Norns, inviting Loki to go on discussing the theoretical side of ritual sex was courting disaster. But… “What about between the thighs? That seems as much following the motions as, ah…” It’s not that he’s usually shy about speaking of such things, but with Loki’s eyes on him, the words dry up in his throat. He gestures lamely. “...with someone who can’t conceive.”

“The King does have a point.” Valka, who had been a librarian planetside and was now responsible for collecting what history was stored in the memories of their people, spoke up. “I believe there was some precedent—”

For someone who had invited corrections, Loki looked rather put-out at being contradicted. “I think I can speak from a position of some expertise on ritual magic, thank you.”

He turned his attention back on Thor, and the reprieve hadn’t been nearly enough. “Penetration is required. The _traditional_ way. Not between the thighs, not orally, not any of the other workarounds your fevered imagine can come up with. It’s not a difficult concept.”

 _Don’t engage,_ Thor told himself, though he was already opening his mouth to protest. “That really isn’t the way I normally do things. Just jumping into—”

Loki’s voice was sharp as a whip. “I cannot possibly express how little I care how you _normally_ do things. But if it will quell your incessant interruptions, there’s no prohibition on foreplay, as long as you do _eventually_ get to the ritual piece. You may apply your mouth and thighs and fingers to as many various parts of your partner as you like, so long as you do the correct rites somewhere in the mix.” Thor was beginning to sweat; what was _wrong_ with him? He could swear that somehow he could feel every word Loki said reverberate throughout him, as if the lips speaking them were pressed to his skin. As if the graceful hands punctuating each declaration were caressing him instead. “You _will_ do this, Thor, and you will do it properly. You will find someone to celebrate with, you will take them down beside your makeshift hearth. You will strip bare as a birch in winter, and do whatever sort of lewd things the both of you can agree upon, but then one of you _will_ penetrate the other, with the appropriate appendage—don’t you dare pretend to misunderstand me and subject your poor council to further elaboration on that point—and that person should endeavor to spill inside. Are you following?”

 _Not so much following as being led by the nose_ , Thor thought helplessly. He was half-wrecked and near spilling just from the sound of Loki’s _voice_ , the dry articulation of what he should do, what he should be imagining doing with anyone except the speaker.

Loki took in his chagrin, if not the reason for it, and smiled. “Oh, and another thing.” The slight drop of his voice at the end of the sentence had a pull on Thor that was nearly physical. “There’s more to your godhood in this matter than _simply_ fertility. It’s about the joy of the act as well.” He pointed at Thor, mock-stern, but Thor felt pinned in place, his blood pounding.

“It’s imperative that you _both_ reach completion.”

If Loki’s intent was to mortify his brother, he had certainly succeeded. The words were barely enough on their own to titillate even a youth newly come to manhood—in Loki’s cruel-edged voice, they were all it took to push Thor up to the edge and over it. 

He would have to stay at the table until the rest had left, and then go and change. But before that, he would have to somehow gather his scattered wits, pull himself together, and conclude this travesty of a meeting. He cleared his throat, trying to banish the hoarseness there and mostly failing.

“Your advice is noted, brother, and I will think on it. Though I think I can speak for all of us when I say I hope you never feel compelled to offer this sort of counsel _ever_ again.” There was a bit of awkward laughter from the room, and Thor forged on before Loki could come up with some other horrifying thing to say. “Do we have any, ah, other matters to discuss? Can we conclude?”

“That’s enough for today, certainly, my King. But for next time,” Birla said pointedly, giving Loki a look that could crack glass, “I think we should discuss who you _officially_ have advising you.”

~

Thor hadn’t actually made any promises. Oh, true, he had given Loki far too much room to make his case, and it was a persuasive argument, but it did not solve either of the underlying problems: not his initial objection, and not the growing shameful knowledge that the one partner Thor might have happily chosen was the one he most definitely could not. He’d said he understood, and that he would think on Loki’s advice, both things which were true. But he hadn’t said he would do anything about it.

The problem was, of course, that Loki was the sort of person who never missed such nuances. In truth Thor had waited with dread for him to bring it up again, slightly more each hour as the day grew closer. But he’d said nothing, not even when Eldramessa arrived. By the evening, when no ambush had materialized, even Thor’s wariness had faded.

The feast was done, the tales told; the children had been herded off to the gathering hall with piles of blankets and patient minders that would keep them far from the festivities. Young couples tripped off giggling, while older ones smiled serenely and bid others goodnight. 

After so long thinking about this damned festival, even just defending his decision to decline to participate, Thor found himself at a bit of a loss. He went back to his quarters, where his paper hearth had been affixed to the wall, and sat down beside it, ruminating.

“I hope I don’t have to tell you that you can’t warm your backside with false flames, brother.”

Thor’s head snapped up—of course. Loki, or maybe just the seeming of him, was perched on the edge of the bed, watching him with amusement. Thor found he didn’t mind, and if Loki meant to argue his case again, it was rather too late for it. Everyone who meant to participate was already paired, cloistered away before their own false fires, and that knowledge made Thor rest easy.

“Come to tell me how you’ve thought of a last minute solution?” He gave Loki a half-smile. “What is it this time, you’ve beamed across space and time and brought me back a partner I couldn’t possibly object to?”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, not everything is about _you_. I have my own rituals that need doing, you know—magic and mischief demand no less than thunder. And since I knew for certain that you would be free—because _of course_ you were going to ignore every bit of my advice, though you’ll suffer for it later—I’m granting you the great honor of assisting me.”

“You are so very gracious that way,” Thor said dryly.

“Don’t pretend you had anything more interesting to do.” A small, rune-bladed knife came to Loki’s hand; Thor couldn’t tell if it was by magic or only sleight-of-hand and a conveniently placed sheath. He made a small, swift cut across one fingertip, then turned his attention to Thor again. “Stand up. You’ll need to lose the shirt.”

Thor blinked at him, though he stood up obediently enough. “Your ritual requires _me_ to be bare-chested?”

“Unless you want your shirt to be ruined. Up to you, I suppose.” Loki rose and crossed to him, seeming unconcerned. After a moment, Thor shrugged and tugged it off. “Now, keep still.” Loki raised the fingertip still welling blood to make some sort of mark across Thor’s brow.

The touch was more delicate than Loki’s usual; Thor resisted the urge to close his eyes. “What sort of rite requires you to paint me with blood? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Because you’ve spent so much time studying the arcane, of course.” Loki’s sarcasm was as gentle as his touch. Perhaps he thought Thor would refuse to help if he were too sharp. “I need a symbolic sacrifice. It works better if I can let a little of your blood as well, but I can do without if you’re squeamish.” Thor knew him well enough to recognize a taunt, but what was a bit of blood anyway?

“That’s a nice change,” he teased. “You asking before stabbing me.”

Loki’s mouth twitched. The knife reappeared. “Don’t squirm,” he said firmly, and set to work.

The sting of the blade was a little enough thing to begin. As Loki traced sigils or shapes of mysterious provenance in shallow cuts across his skin, the slight pain became more and more remote, replaced by a rush. Battle had always tended to get his blood up, but this wasn’t battle; this was slow, and controlled, his blood drawn in graceful lines instead of messy spatters. He was finding it surprisingly difficult to obey Loki’s command: _don’t squirm._

Loki decorated his chest and back with the sharp designs, even—carefully—the back of his neck where the close-cropped hair no longer covered. At one point he paused in his work to smudge a line along Thor’s shoulder with his thumb; when he came back around to stand before Thor again, surveying him like a critical artist, there was a smear of blood at his mouth, as if he had licked the thumb clean.

Thor could not breathe. He had already been riding high, the rush of the knife setting his heart to pounding. The sight of Loki there before him, thoughtful and admiring with Thor’s blood on his mouth, was too much for his body not to react to. There was no convenient conference table this time, no clothing for him to carefully rearrange. “ _Loki_ ,” he said at last, soft and hoarse, intending to ask for a few moments’ reprieve, but he could not get the words out.

Loki grinned his shark’s grin, looking him up and down in a way that made it clear he had not missed Thor’s state. “You know, now that I’m thinking of it, there’s still time in the evening for your celebration as well. And I _do_ have another solution.”

“Loki, I swear—”

In a flash, Loki was behind him again, his breath warm against the back of Thor’s neck. “Of course, you already know this one, don’t you? You’ve been _panting_ for me to say it since the subject came up.” He laughed at Thor’s indrawn breath, at the shiver he was failing to suppress. “Then again, I doubt you would have wanted me to do it in front of your advisors, however desperate you were for it. They do still frown on incest, you know, even if we’re not technically blood.”

Thor swallowed hard. Loki was right, and yet—imagining their reaction set his heart to pounding again. It was perverse, and wrong, and knowing that made him want it all the more. Loki read him as easily as a scroll in the library, shaking his head in amusement.

“You are such an easy mark sometimes I wonder how you’re still any fun to torment.”

Even when his brain refused to function properly, it was easy for Thor to fall into their old rhythm of banter. “I will always be your favorite target, Loki. You’d wither and die if you didn’t have the full weight of my irritation at all times.”

Loki made a sound of contempt. “All about you, _again_. I must remind you that the world is full of people who aren’t thinking about you, even at this very moment.”

“But you aren’t one of—” And then Loki’s tongue was on his skin, tracing the vees he had cut at the back of Thor’s neck, and language deserted him entirely.

Loki pressed against him from behind, hands sliding down Thor’s chest to smear the intricate lines he had so carefully made into something more feral, more _primal_. Thor bit down on a groan when Loki’s hands reached his waistband, slid beneath; when Loki set his teeth to the junction of neck and shoulder, he could not stifle the sound he made.

And then Loki let him go, stepping back, his eyes glittering. Thor suddenly had that itch again, to kiss and throttle him both—maybe at the same time, this time.

Loki did not make him wait, thankfully. “If you want to do this properly, it’s going to have to be by the hearth. Much though I’d enjoy having you right here, it isn’t in keeping with the spirit of the thing, and I hope I’ve impressed upon you by now how important _the spirit of the thing_ actually is.”

Thor was having difficulty retaining anything Loki had said beyond _much though I’d enjoy having you right here_. He managed to drag a blanket and a few cushions from the bed to the floor, then seized Loki by his shirt-front (marked now with the patterns of Thor’s own blood) and pulled him down into the half-hearted nest. Loki went on talking.

“They’re alike in some ways, your rites and mine. A symbolic giving over of the self. Using the body as a ritual tool.” Thor pulled the shirt over his head and Loki smirked down at him. “Symbolic penetration and...well.” His smirk grew hungry. “Literal penetration.”

Thor groaned and caught him by the back of the neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touched. “I swear, Loki, your tongue will be the death of me.”

“A fine idea.” Loki kissed him, messy with the promised tongue but all too brief, then tugged out of his grip to unfasten Thor’s trousers and pull them off. Heat roared through Thor’s veins when his mind caught up with Loki’s implication; his cock twitched against his stomach, but Loki ignored it, sliding a hand down his thigh and lifting Thor’s knee. “You’ll want to hold on to this. The other one too,” he said, and Thor blinked at him muzzily for a moment before realizing Loki intended for him to tuck his legs up against his chest.

“What was all that about—” he started, but Loki was already bending his head. Understanding struck him like one of his own thunderbolts, along with the renewed certainty that Loki’s tongue would, indeed, be the death of him.

At least Loki did not tease him in this. He went right to it, circling Thor’s entrance with firm pressure, leaving Thor gasping and clutching at his own thighs for dear life. He kept at it until Thor was shaking; then he put a finger into his mouth, slicking it with spit before pressing it slowly inside him, licking around Thor’s rim as he eased it in.

“Loki,” Thor gasped. “Brother, you are _cruel._ ”

“Not by half.” Loki made him wait far too long for another finger. “How am I to know what you can take if I don’t ease you into it?”

Thor swore, and tried to press himself onto the seeking fingers, spread himself farther open for Loki’s tongue. When that did not speed Loki along, he gathered his wits with some effort, and gritted out, “I am fairly sure this is not how the ritual goes.”

Loki abruptly withdrew both fingers and tongue, making Thor swear again. “Oh? Now you’re concerned about the proper way of doing things? Well, you did ask me for it, remember that.” Thor half expected Loki to fall upon him immediately with that ominous remark, but he did take the time to produce lubricant from somewhere, spilling the bottle carelessly down Thor’s crack. He unfastened his own trousers with one hand but did not take them off, scooping excess lubricant with two fingers of the other hand and slicking himself perfunctorily.

It wasn’t that Thor was _never_ the one receiving, in his previous trysts, but he didn’t take that role frequently. And Loki was not _unusually_ large, but still, Thor felt the stretch keenly as he pressed in, a shade past _too much_. He bore down as best he could, waiting for the burn to ease. Loki’s expression helped, at least—finally something more honest than his usual smug smile, his lips parted and a flash of heat in his eyes.

“Have me, brother,” Thor said softly; an experiment of sorts. It bore fruit in the way Loki shuddered at the last word and slid deeper—it seemed Thor was not the only one who found his desire piqued by the taboo of it. Enjoyable though that game was, however, he did not have the patience to play it. “Damn it, Loki,” he said after another long moment of stillness, “ _move_.”

“Very demanding for the man who was dead-set against participating in the celebrations until half an hour ago,” Loki murmured, but obliged, shifting his angle a little for balance. Then he snapped his hips forward, and neither of them had the presence of mind for banter. 

Thor let his head fall back to the floor, fingers digging into Loki’s thighs, gritting out harsh sounds of pleasure from between his clenched teeth. Loki was more vocal than he might have expected: not loud, but unrestrained, small noises escaping him at each thrust that he made no effort to suppress. It was unbearably appealing.

At one point Loki pulled out, urged him to turn over; the resulting angle had Thor biting the pillow beneath him, pressing back into Loki with his entire body. The shallow cuts had mostly closed over by now, but the faint sting when Loki bent his head and licked over them again was delicious. Thor would have begged, if Loki were not already giving him exactly what he needed.

At last Loki turned him onto his back again. Thor realized, watching his face, that Loki was close. He—wasn’t, not exactly, needing more than just penetration to get there, but he could be. He took a hand to himself, breathlessly watching Loki’s expression that he might time things better.

“I’m not going to pull out,” Loki said, his voice husky.

“Part of the ritual?” Thor managed, and _fuck_ , but he was close now.

“That too,” Loki said, smug to the last, and bent to kiss him as he came. This was a sweeter kiss than the previous one, and it was that unexpected warmth that tipped Thor over the edge, spilling over his fist. He tangled the other hand in Loki’s hair, keeping him from pulling away; Loki didn’t try, easing down to rest against him, wearing the expression of a contented feline. The hearth may have been false, but the warmth of the room wasn’t, and Thor could feel himself drifting.

But there was something he needed to do first. One hand crept idly down Loki’s hip to his thigh, where his knife sheath was still strapped; the other caught Loki’s hand, squeezing it in a seemingly innocent gesture of affection. At least until—

“Thor, what the _fuck_.”

—he brought up the knife and drew it swiftly across Loki’s palm, making Loki jerk with surprise and swear.

“It didn’t seem fair that the stabbing between us only ever goes one way,” Thor said, smiling sweetly up at his brother. But he pressed Loki’s bleeding hand over his heart—over the line Loki had cut there, mingling their blood—and Loki _knew_.

There were other traditions. Traditions that tied fates together, that strengthened existing bonds. That bound two people with no relation into brotherhood, or linked lovers with an unbreakable thread.

Loki did not mention them. All he said as he settled back in against Thor was, “Don’t touch my knife again.” But when Thor began to drift once more, nearly asleep, he bent low and pressed his lips to the spot over Thor’s heart.


End file.
